Five Times Steve Took a Teammate in Hand
by Cascade Waters
Summary: Five times Steve took a teammate in hand... and one time someone did the same for him. WARNING: Contains non-sexual spanking.


Five Times Steve Took a Teammate in Hand… - for Marie

By sparx

Rating: PG13

Disclaimer: I don't own any of them. *pouts*

Warnings: Non-sexual corporal punishment of adults. And a good helping of schmoop.

A/N: Thanks so much to Karen and Susana and Kaylee and Saber, all of whom helped me make this happen.

Five Times Steve Took a Teammate in Hand…

When Steve quietly asked Tony if the billionaire knew what his reckless choices in fighting with Wolverine would mean, Tony's snarky "No dessert for me?" didn't exactly win him any laughs from the team leader, though most everyone else in the room snorted. Steve's low, quiet request for Tony to come with him wasn't really a request, and even Tony wasn't stupid enough to ignore it, much as he wished he could. Half an hour and a patented Steve Rogers butt-warming later, the eccentric genius was feeling a little less narcissistic and a little less snarky, but was grateful that the team hadn't heard the 'discussion,' though every one of them, and Pepper, knew what had happened. None of them, except for Pepper, would ever bring it up, though, even in private conference with Tony. Even Steve himself wouldn't, believing as firmly in cleaned slates as in decisive accounting. That night, though, after the team finished their combination lobster dinner/budget meeting, Steve helped Pepper pass around dishes of crème brulee, skipping Tony. When the master of attitude looked confused and disappointed, Steve grinned and said, "Well, you are a genius, and since you suggested it, I decided that it sounded like a swell idea."

Odin would be ashamed. Thor knew it, even though Steve would never say it. The Asgardian king had not raised his heir to be a bully, nor to lose mastery of himself at the expense of a child… especially Loki. And it mattered not that Loki had caused such calamity; at present, Thor's little brother was, indeed, little, with no memories of his terrorism aside from some nightmares, and clever as the boy might be, he was far from a match for Thor's physical or emotional force. Odin himself had never lost control of himself with either son, though both had certainly pushed him. The king had once banished a courtesan for caning a misbehaving Loki. The boy had healed then, and he would be well this time in just a day or two. Thor loved his baby brother with a fierceness that defied classification, and every fall of Steve of Rogers's formidable paddle, and every beat of Thor's heart, reminded the warrior prince that he had to be the adult, had to be Loki's protector, regardless of his own irritation in a given moment, or he could never be trusted near the child again. Thor found himself humbled and grateful to have such a friend as Steve, who would hold him accountable and then forgive him when he was less than certain that he could forgive himself.

Bruce knew that he should be angry… but he just couldn't let loose. He'd known before he'd even swallowed the concoction he'd made from a number of toxic substances; he'd been sure (well, fairly sure… well, reasonably sure… well…) that it wouldn't really affect him, but he and the team had some unspoken agreements, and one of them was 'no frivolous self-destructiveness.' Heaven knew that Hawkeye had run up against that one more than once, and so had Tony Stark. For Bruce, who had such deep-seated insecurities and sense of remorse, it almost felt good to have his semi-habitual experimentation so firmly addressed, to have his value addressed. Then the ruler found his rear again. Yeah. Almost.

Natasha was as shocked as everyone else when Steve walked into the debriefing and marched her out with her arm in a deceptively gentle grip. Sure, she could probably have used her skills to get free… probably. She told herself that she didn't try out of respect for Steve and a desire to not make a scene. After all, this man was patently not above handling his dissatisfaction publicly, though granted, he'd only ever done so with Clint. She had no desire to become the second. Though she was pretty sure that she wouldn't be subject to the same… manner of handling. And then she realized that Steve was marching her to the garage, bringing her to face the rental car she'd smashed up fairly spectacularly while toying with the police (and that cute little dual locomotive,) and asking her if they really needed to talk about why they were here. Seconds later, she found herself bent over the rounded and undamaged trunk with one arm trapped against her back and her feet off of the floor, and shock didn't quite cover the sting of the first swat, or the reality check that Captain America's sense of fairness apparently trumped his sense of chivalry.

Clint heard the door to his room open, he heard his old hair-trigger shortbow fire… and moments later, he heard a 'Morning, Champ,' and he rolled his eyes and groaned as he finished his shower. It wasn't that he didn't like Steve; he'd just had a really long, hot, and somewhat twisted few weeks working for… wow, he'd actually lost track of who was calling the shots just now… and he hadn't exactly been expecting company, especially not company in patriotic spandex. It had him worried enough to rush through drying and forego his sleep shirt, yanking up his old sweatpants and emerging into the main room of his apartment. To his relief (for more than one reason,) the man sitting on the foot of the motel bed, looking distinctly unimpressed with the room, looked neither spandexed nor anxious. Of course, that made it even weirder that he was here. Clint didn't remember doing anything particularly embarrassing or nefarious, and whatever risks he'd taken recently had been necessary (arguably, anyway, and it wasn't like any of the Avengers would know the details of Clint's activities lately.) So really, it went from weirder to downright bizarre, and alarming, when Steve grinned at him—and then grabbed his wrist and maneuvered him down into prime butt-busting position. When Clint, already knowing that struggling would be a waste of energy, demanded to know what was going on, Rogers sounded way too cheerful as he replied that he was honoring a tradition, and though most of the swats didn't hurt in the slightest, Steve surprised him with a sudden very hard one, commenting that that was 'for staying in this rat trap of a roadside motel,' and a bit later, two hard swats in rapid succession on one sit spot 'for not maintaining better security, at least a working lock on the door,' and at the end, two hard ones on the other sit spot 'for making me hunt you down instead of just letting us know where you'd be.' The one to grow on was also hard, evidently just on principle, but at least it fell a bit higher. Somehow, the 'Happy birthday, Champ,' just didn't reassure the archer all that much. He did feel warm, though (in more than one sense.) He was also baffled—how Steve had found him, _why_ Steve had found him, how Steve knew his birthdate… None of it made sense, and Clint would have been able to convince himself that this was all some sort of masochistic nightmare if not for the definite stinging burn in his backside. When he made an obligatory snarky complaint, Steve reminded him that the birthday spanking was a long-held tradition and declared his intent to uphold it. Clint muttered that it was duly noted and that he'd have to remember that come this next July 4th.

And One Time Someone Took Steve in Hand

The first swat came without warning—just a very loud dull clang followed by a very pronounced sting that all too quickly became a burn. Steve jumped and tried to turn around, but found himself restrained rather effectively by something he could neither see nor identify by feel. He'd been leaning over Mr. Fury's fantastic lit tactical table, days after defeating the Chitauri, using the amazing capabilities of modern technology to help coordinate the cleanup/rebuilding/resecuring of the city, and now he couldn't straighten, and he realized ruefully that he'd put himself in the ideal position to get his seat warmed… though obviously, he hadn't expected this. Nor had he expected to find himself being quietly lectured about holding on to misplaced guilt over what he couldn't have known about or been there to prevent. Steve winced at both the intense, building pain in his backside, against which his tan trousers and skivvies offered no help, and the words of his assailant, delivered in a dry, stern tone and hitting his conscience as unerringly as (he was embarrassedly sure) his own shield was striking his seat. As Steve tired of struggling and gave in to quiet sobs, with his face buried in his arms and his undeserved guilt bleeding away, he came to understand two things: He would never let anyone disrespect another person, superhero or not, for losing composure during a sound spanking. And Agent Coulson had a heck of a swing.


End file.
